


Fragmentation

by pomegrenadier



Series: Knife to a Gunfight [5]
Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: (very minor but just in case), Aftermath of Torture, And Less Unhealthy Relationships Too, Angst, Canon-Typical Imperial Agent Content, Gen, Past Rape/Non-con, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:27:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28336941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pomegrenadier/pseuds/pomegrenadier
Summary: After being interrogated by the Star Cabal, Cipher Nine is perfectly all right.Really. Just ask him. He'll tell you so.
Relationships: Imperial Agent | Cipher Nine & Companions, Imperial Agent | Cipher Nine & Watcher Two | Shara Jenn, Past Hunter (Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic)/Male Imperial Agent | Cipher Nine
Series: Knife to a Gunfight [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2010199
Comments: 24
Kudos: 28





	Fragmentation

**Author's Note:**

> Assumes a slightly longer gap between the "let's see how far we can push that T rating with sound effects and fade-to-blacks" torture scene on Corellia, and the Agent going off to start the endgame proper. Because without MMO mechanical limitations I do not think that anybody subjected to such, uh, _visceral_ sound effects is just going to be able to walk it off, fake their death, and immediately take on the whole Star Cabal. Like, I'll buy super fast recovery with rapid medical intervention and handwavey technobabble healing slime, but ... not _instantaneous_ recovery.
> 
> Sadly, even with three seconds to chill, Agents do not get to catch a break. :)

Everything is slimy and cold from the kolto residue. Cipher Nine stumbles into the 'fresher and lets out a shuddering breath as he steps into the hot water and white noise.

He stands there for a moment, unmoving. Then he reaches for the soap. Scrubs away cloying kolto and _high pain threshold_ and _twenty hours, thirty-two minutes_ and Hunter's eyes. There's very little actual pain—the painkillers are doing their job, and the kolto tank fixed the worst of the injuries from the interrogation and the long, long walk across Axial Park afterwards. He's not fit to fight by any stretch of the imagination, but Lokin is a good medic, if nothing else. He'll get there soon enough.

Once he's clean he sits down and lets the water hammer at his shoulders, head bowed, optics offline. It's not like after Quesh; he doesn't lose time. But he still feels—he's not sure how he feels.

There will be time to figure it out later. Once Hunter and the rest of the Star Cabal are dead. Until then, he needs to be the kind of person who can reach that point. Functional. He can do that. He's good at that. He just—doesn't want to step out of the shower right away.

Cipher Nine exhales. It will be hours, maybe days, before Keeper gathers enough data on Star Cabal transmissions and movements to take any action. He's still too hurt to be of much use.

He can afford a few more minutes.

* * *

"How are you feeling?" says Lokin.

"Wonderful, thank you, Doctor," says Cipher Nine, smiling over the rim of his mug. "Your concern is touching."

"Ah, sarcasm. Your favorite means of deflection."

He takes a sip of oversteeped tea. "How astute."

"Has it ever occurred to you," Lokin says mildly, "that I might actually care about your well-being?"

Cipher Nine sets down the mug. "Now, now. There's no need for insults, Doctor."

Lokin throws him a patronizing look. "Do try not to buckle under the weight of all that paranoia, Agent."

"I'm sure you'll be the first to take advantage when it happens," he says sweetly.

Lokin chuckles. "Cipher agents," he says, shaking his head. "So suspicious. So high-strung."

He's thought of seven ways to kill Lokin without exposing himself or anyone else to any unpleasant pathogens. Might be time to come up with an eighth. Just in case.

It's not paranoia if the other party is a part-time rakghoul with Intelligence training. It's just good sense.

* * *

"How are you feeling?" says Temple.

"About as all right as can be expected," he replies, grimacing. Temple needs at least some acknowledgement that he's currently less than optimal, or she'll become convinced that he's repressing his emotions in an unhealthy manner. And then she'll try to pry them out of him. Which is just ... deeply unappealing.

True to form, she gives a sympathetic smile. Then she puts her hand over his, which is _not_ true to form—it's too forward, too personal. "Nobody expects you to be all right after something like that," she says, gentle, sickening. "What you did was incredibly brave."

"Well, mostly it was incredibly unpleasant, but ..." Softer, just a little vulnerable but not brittle: "Thank you, Ensign."

"If you need to talk, you know where to find me."

"I'll keep that in mind," he says, returning the smile.

She leaves, and he digs his nails into the palm of the hand she touched until the crawling warmth dissipates into nice, clean pain. The barely-healed fractures ache. Or maybe it's just his imagination.

* * *

"How are you feeling?" says SCORPIO.

"Why do you ask?" he says.

SCORPIO tilts her head to one side. "I'm fascinated by the variety of organics' responses to trauma. You're not unique, but you are an outlier in many respects. It will be interesting to observe your reactions."

"What purpose do your observations serve?" says Cipher Nine, mirroring her posture.

"Satisfying my curiosity," she says coolly. "And enhancing my ability to predict organics' behavior. Your tendency to respond to questions with questions in order to buy time is remarkably consistent."

He laughs. "I appreciate your candor, SCORPIO. Seems I'll have to come up with new tricks to surprise you."

"You are guiding the topic away from your emotional state."

"Mm-hmm."

SCORPIO's eye-lights narrow. "You don't want to discuss it."

"Your ability to _interpret_ organics' behavior has improved dramatically since we met."

"Of course it has," SCORPIO says. "Self-improvement is my goal. I will allow your little gambit. It's sufficiently revealing to serve as a data point."

"You're too kind," he deadpans.

Force help him, he might actually _like_ SCORPIO.

* * *

"How are you feeling?" says Vector.

"Bit tired, I suppose," Cipher Nine says with a shrug.

"Your aura is ... more subdued than usual."

"Well, I did pull one hell of an all-nighter recently. Sleep debt's bad for you, or so I hear," he says, dry and unworried, because he can't control his fucking _aura_ but he can control his voice and face and posture.

Vector shifts his weight, then sighs. "Agent, we are concerned."

He wonders if Vector can sense the sudden, blinding _anger_ that flashes through him. If Vector knows just how much he fucking hates empaths, whether they use pheromones or the Force. How dare he. How _dare_ Vector look at him and think he _knows_. How dare he look at all. Cipher Nine takes a breath, smiles. "There's no need for that."

"We have spoken to the others, Agent. You refuse to talk to any of them."

"Because there's nothing to talk about. I had one bad day. I'm alive, I'm recovering, and we have a job to do."

"We are waiting for the chance to do that job," Vector says. "And in the meantime, we fear that you may drown."

"... You ... want to _help_ me," Cipher Nine says, almost a question.

"Yes. We do. For all our differences, Agent, you are important to us. Let us help you. Please."

"Nobody ever ..." Tremulous, disbelieving, _hopeful._

"Somebody should have," says Vector.

"Get out of my sight."

Vector's eyes widen. "Agent—"

"Shut up. I have no interest in breaking prettily for you. _Get_ _the fuck_ _out of my sight."_

* * *

If Kaliyo were here, she'd either be refreshingly callous, allowing him to go about business as usual, or she'd see the situation as an opportunity ripe for exploitation. Vengeance, after Hutta. He'd end up either owing her a debt, or stabbing her in the throat.

Kaliyo isn't here. Maybe she's dead. Maybe she's rotting in Imperial prison. Maybe she's escaped. Maybe he should have killed her in that hangar, rather than only threatening to. Maybe none of it fucking matters, because she isn't here, and he never trusted her and he doesn't even like her, and if she asked _how are you feeling_ he'd just lie anyway.

She'd never ask.

Maybe that's why he misses her.

* * *

Keeper contacts him fifty-one hours after he crawled back to Imperial lines. Audio only, no holos in the command center. They agree that he needs to disappear. Faking his own death in a war zone will be easy enough. And after that: the Star Cabal.

"It's almost over," he says, half to himself.

"... It is," says Keeper, in the dangerously careful tones of a handler who's just realized their asset is perhaps not as functional as it needs to be. "How are—"

"If you're going to ask how I'm _feeling_ , don't." He's out of patience, too fucking tired to play this game. Which is ... telling. Usually he's better than this.

"I was going to ask how your team were handling the situation," Keeper says mildly.

A tidy sidestep. "They'll do what needs doing."

"Good." There's a pause. Then she says, "Can you do this, Cipher?"

"Is there anyone else?"

They both know the answer. But she says it aloud: "No. There isn't."

He leans against the wall of the tiny conference room, lets the back of his head hit the surface. "I can do this."

Keeper exhales audibly. "I know you will," she says. "You've never let us down."

They both go quiet for a moment. Without a visual he can't read her silence—skepticism or resignation or approval, he has no way of knowing. He slides down the wall, draws his knees partway up, and puts his optics on standby to shut out the sickly, flickering fluorescent glow of the overhead lights.

"The Minister of Intelligence warned me about you, you know," Keeper says suddenly.

He laughs. "Ouch."

"Tenacity, guile, and a truly astonishing ability to mold yourself into whatever the situation requires. All useful traits in a spy. But he said you might not know how to stop."

"... Stopping has not, historically, been a tactically advisable course of action."

"It never is." Keeper sighs. "There's always another crisis. But this is the second time I've watched you jump from one crisis to another without stopping, and ... Agent, I'm worried about you. I have no doubt you can complete the mission. But you're fighting wounded, and I suspect you have been for quite some time."

He goes cold, raising his head and snapping his optics back online. He runs his tongue over his lips. "If I said that discussing it wouldn't help, would you accept that?"

"I wouldn't much like it," she says, a bit wry, "but yes."

He hesitates for too long.

"This is a secure transmission," Keeper says. Then, softer: "And nothing you say will reach anyone's ears but mine. You have my word."

"Can I trust you?" Abrupt, ragged. That's not good. He didn't mean for that to happen. It's never a good sign when he starts emoting without intending to.

... He shouted at Vector and snapped at Keeper. He's long past the point of _not good._

Keeper doesn't answer immediately. He appreciates the consideration. Or the appearance of it. She says, "I've held your life in my hands. I've sent you to your death. I've seen you survive it. I've asked you to do things no decent person should ever ask of another, and you've done them, because it was me asking. Because that's the job. But there are kinds of trust that—that people like us, we can't so easily give. So when I say _yes, you can trust me_ ... know that I understand what you're offering."

He takes a breath.

And he tells as much of the truth as he can.

"While I was undercover," he says. "With the SIS. Hunter ... I was not in a position to ... refuse. And he—used that. Used. Me."

Dead silence over the comm. Then, quiet, barely voiced: "Cipher ..."

"He'd take my, my eyes out," he continues, words too fast, too clumsy, tripping over each other. "Make me beg. He was good at it. He was—the others didn't know. Didn't want to know. The whole time, they—and I killed them for it, I fucking _killed them_ —and Hunter escaped. I fucked it up. On Quesh. He got away. I couldn't catch him and now ...

"And then, with the interrogation. He was there. On holo. While they worked. He was ... watching. He watched. Not, not the whole time, but—on and off. For twenty fucking hours. I'd look up and—and he'd be there. _Watching m_ _e beg."_ He presses his lips together, buries his face in his knees. He's holding the earpiece in place hard enough to hurt.

Everything hurts, even now, days of kolto and painkillers later. Everything, inside and out.

"Cipher ... I'm so sorry."

"It's not y—"

"Let me finish," Keeper says. Her voice in his ear is steel and certainty, because Keeper is _Keeper,_ and out of every cold-blooded killer and liar and manipulator and executioner in Imperial Intelligence, he's glad it's her.

"I am sorry for asking you to put yourself in his hands again," she says. "I am sorry for what you had to endure. I'm sorry that you had to endure it alone. And—" She cuts herself off. He hears her inhale sharply. "And I am so very glad that you're alive, Cipher Nine."

She's lying she's lying she's lying he knows she's lying he knows how this works—he knows she'll say anything for the sake of the mission, anything at all to keep him functional and fighting—she's _lying_ and he'd do the same and he wants to believe her and he knows she's lying and he shouldn't believe her and he shouldn't have asked—

"Do you trust me?" says Keeper.

No. Always. Yes. Never.

"Cipher. Please. Please, just this once, trust me."

He sobs down the comm line and breaks, breaks, breaks.


End file.
